


Let your body talk to me

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Mentions of Rape, fat worship, torture boyfriends, unsanitary and unsafe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: The sudden drop in exercise has made Millersoft. Rounded the lines of his show muscles.





	Let your body talk to me

**Author's Note:**

> written for the MGS Winter Games, Challenge F1, inspired by [this absolutely irresistible chufty Kaz by Shoyumangos](https://twitter.com/Shoyumangos/status/962764169647828992)

Emmerich is still whining like a crippled dog when Ocelot follows Miller out of the room and finds him in the observation room, back against the fake mirror, breath shallow.

Miller looks at him over his aviators. His pale eyes burn. He does not brace himself when Ocelot slams him against the glass.

Their mouths clash together, open, wet, ready. Miller’s tongue tastes of antacids and gin and fear. Ocelot sticks his hands under his coat.

The sudden drop in exercise has made Miller _soft_. Rounded the lines of his show muscles. Ocelot grabs the thick flesh covering his once sharp hipbones, hard enough to make him whine.

Miller’s crutch clatters to the ground, his arm hooked over Ocelot’s shoulder for support. The sour stench of his codeine sweat is overwhelming.

Ocelot’s hands slide down. His ass fills his hands, spills through his fingers as he squeezes, hard, feels skin break through all the layers.

“Don’t leave...marks…” breathes Miller. “Snake…”

“He won’t mind.” He doesn’t know why he’s so sure of it.

Doesn’t care. Slots a leg between Miller’s shaking thighs, drags his ass up, his hardening cock heavy and hot through his pants.

“Fuck, Ocelot,” rasps Miller. “You sick _fuck_.”

“Takes one to know one.”

His free leg used as a pivot. Half a spin, and Miller is dropped onto the table. Documents and pens go flying and so do his aviators and his stupid shapeless hat. Ocelot fumbles with all those fucking belts and buttons but he can’t look down, because Miller’s got his hair wrapped in his fist and he’s kissing him again, sucking his tongue so deep into his mouth Ocelot can barely breathe. He sticks his hands under his jacket, pulls at his shirt. Buttons pop, roll down the grates in the floor.

He manages to pull back to look. Miller’s undershirt is gray with grime and sweat, distended over his stomach, over his flat pecs that have relaxed into perky, soft breasts. Ocelot holds them in his palms, presses them together. They form a nice snug space he’d love to shove his cock through, but not today. Today he’s burning, he’s climbing onto the table as he undoes Miller’s pants and his own.

He has to push his belly aside to get to his perfect little curved cock he’s missed so much, to fit himself in his lap.

“Wait,” he croaks, sudden fear in his eyes. “I’m not…”

 _Clean_. He knows. He knows it’s not been six months yet since Da Gwandai Khar, that Miller is so worried about those dozens of faceless bodies that violated him that he gets tested every two weeks, that he and Snake use condoms even for blowjobs.

“Don’t care,” he grunts, breathing out to let him in. No lube, Miller’s precum will have to do. At least he’s not too big, just enough for Ocelot to feel that stretch, to feel full.

Oh, it has been a while, longer than he’d realized it’d been. Not since the last time Miller fucked him over his desk, when he still had both hands to pin him down, both legs to thrust until Ocelot was begging. It’s good. Nostalgic in a way that makes him feel like he’s forgetting something important.

He pushes Miller’s undershirt up, paws at his soft stomach as he rides him. He bites the tip of his glove to pull it off, he needs to _feel_ that cushy fat that jiggles with every thrust of his hips. Skin on skin, scars on scars, sweat on sweat. Miller sticks his fingers in Ocelot’s mouth, makes him do the same to his reeking, greasy glove.

And then his big calloused hand is pressing Ocelots cock down against his belly, and it’s so hot and slick and soft and Ocelot leans in to thrust and to kiss him again, Miller filling him and surrounding him and he feels like he’s sinking in his soft thick body.

“C’mon, I don’t have all day,” he breathes in Ocelot’s mouth and his belly _vibrates_ with his deep raspy voice and Ocelot spills all over his stomach and his filthy shirt. He might croak _that name_ he promised he wouldn’t say anymore, and he’s still throbbing and shaking all over when Miller makes it over the edge too.

“ _Kaz, Kaz, Kaz,_ ” he whispers, face smushed in his scruffy jaw as he rides out his orgasm, because that syllable is the only thing he can think of right now, that and how much he wishes there were two soft arms holding him instead of one.

Miller kicks him off almost as soon as he’s done, claiming his back hurts, but he still lets Ocelot help him back in his clothes. He tries to keep his angry facade but his eyes are drooping and his lips are pink from kissing. He only makes a tired grunt at the missing brass buttons of his jacket. He stifles a yawn when Ocelot slips his aviators back on.

“Same time next week?” says Ocelot picking up his crutch and nodding at Emmerich through the glass, still where they left him, face down on the floor and sobbing.

Miller doesn’t answer, but his hand lingers on Ocelot’s over the crutch just long enough to mean yes.

Ocelot leaves with a spring in his step and Miller’s scent all over him.

Who knew Emmerich could actually be useful for _something_.

 

 


End file.
